


Charcoal Paper Roses

by Leyenn



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/pseuds/Leyenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam won't stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charcoal Paper Roses

"But, Janet-"

"No!" Fire flashes in her eyes as she spins around to me. "No, we are not discussing this. Not right now."

I'm begging. I have to. I have to make this right. "Please?"

"I _can't_, Sam," she hisses under her breath, and then Doctor Fraiser takes over and I lose sight of her again.

I'm so afraid one day she'll never come back to me.

  


*

  


Charcoal and paper under one arm; roses in the other hand, vase still standing empty on the dresser. The penknife blade is shiny-new as I flick it in the fading sunlight through her window. Janet loves to draw.

I hear her pull into the drive, three minutes to six on the mantle clock, almost perfect. The engine spits once as she stops the car because I never found the time to take a look. Flowers in the water, ingredients of pictures on her desk. Make it look like home and pretend that I could let myself belong.

One minute to six. "Oh. I didn't... Hi."

"Cassie's not home." As if she's just a friend who called to go out, but shouldn't big girls like us stay in and play instead?

"I know. She's staying with Melissa." I remember the name, put it to a face as she walks on past - a tall blonde sweetheart about sixteen, with too much makeup and never enough breath between her words. I wonder if they've kissed yet.

"I bought pasta," she's saying. Pasta? "For dinner," she obliges me. "You're not hungry?"

I wonder if she even saw the flowers.

"I don't think I should eat," my mouth says. "I was thinking I should just-"

"The roses are nice, Sam." As if I drew a pretty picture for her in class. "Put them in the bedroom for me," she says, gentle, doctor-like, her hand over mine. A hand, a little touch... I want more than this. I want depth and love and screaming scratches on my back, sweat and tears and wet, slick fingers, big girls playing in the bedroom with the door wide shut. I want it all to be the same way it was.

Want deserts me for Fear. "I-I have to go." I recall how it happened before. _I can't stay, Janet._

"Okay." The nod that I didn't earn then, when she still had belief enough to fight this. _You always have to go. Why not stay tonight?_

"I'm sorry." _I'm not doing this to hurt you. You know that._

"It's fine. I'll be fine." _The hurt doesn't care if you mean to, Sam._

"I'm... I'm sorry. Earlier." _I just... I can't. Not yet. Please._

"Yeah." _It's been a month. I've been counting._

"Really. The flowers... I bought some other stuff too. I thought maybe... I'll come over tomorrow and you can try drawing me again." _So this is what - this is the last time you ask? Is that it?_

"That'd be nice. Maybe in the garden this time." _Sam, please... end it or stay, but don't make me go through this again. I can't._

"I do love you." _I can't not be with you!_

"I know." _But you can't be with me either._

"Always. Wherever I am. You know-" _I love you, Janet._

"Yes, I know." _Then why don't you stay?_

  


*

  


Twelve minutes to four on the clock as the door clicks shut behind my silence. Sketches on the floor, flakes of paper burnt in the hearth; a smudge line of grey darkens the rug. I think to tidy up but don't touch, afraid to dare.

Always afraid to dare.

Shirt and pants follow the key and jacket onto her couch, sneakers slide under the edge and try to look right there - clothes give me escape I can't afford. The last stick is hiding to break under my foot when I stand; crack, crumble, sharp branding on my sole. Black smudges carry my feet up the staircase. At the corner of my eye it turns four minutes to four, a month late and almost on time.

In the vase there are thirteen now, where there were twelve before I rode out: real as if she could carve life out of the paper, let her art fill in the highlights and smudge the shadows with her fingertips. A charcoal and paper rose offers its rough petals for my bravery, promising a future shaped in her hands. A pale print on the window above where she closed it tonight, moonlight touching on phantom fingers as I slip naked past the fear.

She feels warm.

"We should both be asleep," she teases with painful sparks in her eyes. Need me, it's all I want. Need me and stay.

"I... I didn't want to sleep alone." The words use my voice without warning. She doesn't turn. "If you'll have me..."

"This is all there is, Sam. The last time," and she means it. The last time. Now or never, sink or swim; don't look when you leap into the light, just breath it in and let yourself drown. Need what she needs, be what she will only ask of you once more and let yourself come back to life when she takes you in.

"Yes," I tell my mouth to say, and then it opens to her kiss. Pliant fire, fingers in my hair and body pressed to mine, a deep, soft mouth that was meant for this. Then, "Damn it, I'm so sorry."

Silky touches trace the shiver down my back, chasing my four a.m. apology like a living thing. I move one blackened foot to twist up and around a smooth leg, imagine drawing my own pictures in dark streaks under the sheets. Artist's fingers push between my thighs to play and I moan, soft, wonderful.

"Please... yes... oh God, Janet -" silk-smooth breasts pressing mine holding me to the bed, hot mouth open over mine and gasping when I slip a finger inside her from behind, palm cupped tight underneath the most gorgeous ass ever known. "Sorry, so sorry..." pain and pleasure like no one would ever believe as she fights one leg over mine and rocks hard and sharp and lets it come, sobbing when she rakes stinging threads down my back. It hurts that she waited, hurts that I did this, hurts that I didn't do this before. "Christ, I love you-"

Scream softly with delicious pain, think about roses and charcoal and coming apart entirely as her fingers curl and thrust inside, no semblance of grace at all but artful to the end, palm hard on my clit and a smile of triumph in the kiss that closes over my mouth and takes me over and swallows the harsh sobs in my throat when I come. Soul and fingers in so deep that I feel empty when she breaks away, need it worse than life to have that closeness again. "Oh God no, don't... please, Janet..."

"In the morning." The warmth as she presses against me is comforting, all dried tears and slick fingers on my hip. "It's going to be a lovely day. We'll sit outside and talk. I can draw you again," and she laughs at the idea. I wonder if I would be any better for her in black and cream-white and smudges, if she managed to get it right this time. I imagine I could be perfect under those fingertips.

"Okay," I answer, and close my eyes and hold my tongue, and wish with all my heart to wake up as a charcoal shadow of the woman who hurt her. "I... I just..."

"Sam." My name is smiling on her lips as she quiets me. "It's okay. I'll love you in the morning just the same."

I try not to feel myself cry, and let myself drown in her embrace.

  


*

  


I wake up to paper roses on her pillow, her perfume on the petals. There's a simple slip of paper between the stems; a blanket on the garden grass when I look outside and she's smiling thoughtfully at her sketch while she waits, feet bare, hair down, tags left behind, for my answer.

The note falls into our bed, a dust of grey on the sheets. I pick out a rose and smile again to tread softly down the stairs.

  


*

  



End file.
